


One Long Night

by caritivereflection



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Gen, HEAVILY inspired by DC/Batman, M/M, semi-crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6869767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caritivereflection/pseuds/caritivereflection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His city is dying. It's diseased. And he knows, even if he never wanted to be a hero, that he is the only person with the resources and the drive to save Glade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harsh

**Author's Note:**

> Little explanation about the basic premise of this AU: It is heavily based on preboot Batman comics, and if you are familiar with those, you will see many, many parallels and similarities. It is not, however, a crossover or a strict Batman-AU. In this universe, Batman does not exist (either as a real life Superhero or in his fictional form). Gotham does not exist. DC as a whole does not exist.
> 
> Thomas steps into the role of a Batman-LIKE figure in a Gotham-LIKE Glade City. Other characters may take on one or more roles that are inspired by other Batman continuity characters. Plotlines and elements from both the TMR series and Batman comics may be tackled in new ways.
> 
> Fics presented non-chronologically.

He’s screaming, the man, and it rises in pitch as his shoulder dislocates with a sickening sound somewhere between a crunch and squelch.

Thomas feels nausea rising in his throat, chokes it down and pushes the man—some low ranking WICKED member in a cheap suit that is now more of an alleyway brown than grey—to the ground. A knee on the small of his back and then zip ties around his wrists.

Thomas pushes the man away, his screams turning to sobs, and then collapses against the rough brick wall, his cape and kevlar keeping the rough surface from scratching his skin.

Minho stands at the mouth of the alley, arms folded in front of his chest and a little smirk on his face, his domino mask tilted at an angle.

“Good work, T,” he says, entering the alley to approach Thomas. He could’ve stepped over the sobbing man, when he reached him, but instead kicks his legs out of the way and comes to a stop in front of Thomas.

“Jesus Christ,” Thomas says, bracing his hands on his knees as he regains his composure. The right side of his face is aching, and he knows that it will bruise, be hard to cover if he’s required to attend any social events this week. He should probably get some ice on it, to prevent the swelling that’s sure to come. But he can’t do that now. Can barely stand. He’s sick and his face hurts and.

And shit.

He just dislocated a man’s shoulder. With his bare hands.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Minho hums in the back of his throat.

“The sound?” he says. Thomas glares at him. He’s far too composed, and he doesn’t know if that scares him or makes him sad. “Yeah, it’s a little harsh at first. Newt still hates it. Guess that’s why he prefers the long range approach.”

Thomas just grunts, vaguely files away that tidbit of information, and then promptly vomits on a nearby trashcan lid, speckles of breakfast and stomach acid flying onto his boots and pants.

Minho doesn’t offer any comfort, but neither does he laugh or sigh in frustration. He just lets Thomas kneel for a few more minutes, and when the brown haired man rights himself, Minho is looking at him with a steely determination in his eyes.

“Puke if you want, T,” he says. “But you’re gonna have to toughen up if you plan on going through with this whole crimefighting schtick. There’s a lot of bad guys out there, and that’s not the last time you’re gonna hear ‘em crack.”


	2. Words

Newt has never considered himself a thief. He, technically, of course, is. He steals things, picks pockets and takes men’s unwrinkled bills and shiny wallets.

But he _refuses_ to feel bad about it, and a thief is something bad. If the man has a Rolex, a Bentley, a suit that costs enough for Newt to eat for half a year, then he knows the man will never truly miss the forty or eighty or two hundred and thirteen dollars folded neatly in fine Italian leather.

Minho smirks at him, sometimes, when he comes home with a haul, all crisp bills and empty wallets, the credit cards and IDs and family photos tossed in dumpsters.

He says Newt should own it, stop being so deluded.

“You’ve got a talent,” he says and takes Newt’s hand and folds their fingers together, thick and tan twined with white and slim. “You got magic hands, baby.”

Newt rolls his eyes at the leer Minho adopts, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Why, if I had myself fingers half as quick as yours…” Minho catches his tongue between his teeth and the playful smile fades away. Newt watches as the miles grow in his eyes.

Because if Newt is deluded, then Minho is too. He dances, more graceful than Newt’s fingers could ever be, around all those words they both think but never say.

As the night falls and the streetlights flicker on, or don’t, Newt can tell what kind of night it will be, watching Minho eat a bowl of cereal and bustle about the apartment. The trainers with the pen marks and the loose flannel over a stained white shirt means it’s safe to hit the seedy pool halls and try his luck. It means Minho will be back by three with a fistful of crumpled dollars and a little beer on his breath that Newt can smell when the shorter boy tumbles into bed with him and wraps a muscled arm around his chest.

But the tight jeans, the ones that hug his arse in a way Newt doesn’t allow himself to think about, and the shirt that’s clean and clings tight to his chest and biceps… Newt only hopes he’ll come back by sunrise. And when he rolls into bed, tired and quiet, there’s no arm around Newt, no alcohol-sweet breath or hint of a smile against his spine.

Just Minho, curled into himself on the very edge of the bed.

(On both kinds of nights, Newt dreads the bruises and split lips and broken fingers)

Newt has never thought of himself as a thief, and he’s never thought of Minho as any of those _words_ , either.

Even though, technically, they are.


End file.
